Distraction
by Muffled Chimes
Summary: What Draco really needs is a distraction. He finds it when he visits a bar, with the unlikeliest of people. Written for "Pepper's Perpetual Pairing Challenge" on HPFC. DM and RV - NOT A PAIRING.


A/N: Written for "Pepper's Perpetual Pairing Challenge" on HPFC, for the wonderful Pepperashesnikki. The pairing was Draco/Romilda.

* * *

"_Don't scowl, Draco. Malfoys do not scowl. Straighten up, I'll not have you looking like you were raised by a clan of blood-traitors._"

Draco can hear his father's voice, echoing off the walls of the aching cavern that is his head. Can see him, reflected in the amber liquid in the shot glass in front of him. He ordered the shot a good fifteen minutes ago, but he still hasn't downed it. He can't bring himself to do it just yet. Rather, he's scowling at it – something that his father would no doubt have berated him for. But Lucius Malfoy wasn't here now, was he? And a good thing, too. He might have fainted, seeing his only son – the heir of Malfoy Manor – in a bar, of all places.

It isn't his fault, he argues with himself feebly. He didn't ask for this. It's bad enough that he has to come home every day from work to _her_. Astoria Greengrass. Malfoy now, he has to remind himself, and he grimaces at the thought. It's not that she isn't pretty. Oh, she's pretty, alright – the perfect wife for someone of his lineage. Pureblood, beautiful, and a mask of pure ice that would give even his mother a run for her money. Beauty, Draco has learned, is no match for personality, and Astoria seems to be severely lacking in that department; she is unreadable.

He regrets now his decision at the end of his sixth year, to break up with Pansy. She was childish, of course, but so was he. She pouted whenever he didn't pay her attention, and practically worshipped the ground that he walked on. And – as sappy as he feels to think it – she loved him. He knows she would have done anything for him, if only he'd asked. Of course, once he'd realized his mistake, it was too late. She'd been promised to Adrian Pucey. And so, the task of finding him a suitable wife had fallen upon Narcissa. She cared about his happiness, and still does, but of course, she had to abide by her husband's wishes. She presented Draco, over the course of two years, several eligible pureblooded witches of notable descent. He had settled on Astoria, because of her beauty.

And now she's pregnant, with his child. Because that's what is expected of him – to produce an heir, and hopefully a son. He's never considered what it would mean to have a child before. What it means to be a _father_, and he isn't sure if he really knows how. His own father was distant, and did what was expected of him – and now he's in Azkaban. Draco isn't sure that he wants to be that way, that he wants to father his own child like that.

He fingers the shot glass thoughtfully, watching the liquid inside slosh around the crystalline edges. He's so deep in thought that he doesn't notice a shadow that falls over him, or register that there's a person in front of him until an amused voice says, "Are you going to stare at it all day, or are you going to put it out of its misery?"

He looks up, startled, to find a tall woman standing before him, hands on her hips and smiling at him bemusedly. There's something oddly familiar about her, but he can't quite place it. However, she makes the connection that he can't quite seem to grasp.

"Blimey, is that- is that _Draco Malfoy_?" she says, her eyebrows raising toward that mass of dark, curly hair. "I haven't seen you in ages!" At his perplexed look, it appears that she can guess he doesn't recognize her. "Figures that you wouldn't remember me. Romilda Vane? I was in your year in Gryffindor. We were paired together in Potions once."

Now he remembers. Romilda Vane had been the quintessence of annoying girl. Annoying _Gryffindor_ girl at that. Almost immediately, he feels a sneer come to his lips, but he represses it, remembering all at once that they aren't in school anymore. House prejudices were childish. So he puts on an indulgent half-smile, and nods his head. "I remember. You spilled your stinging nettles all over my arms on accident," he recalls, and his voice betrays that this memory in particular is one he's less than fond of.

She grins, and he can see that typical streak of Gryffindor within her. "And I still say it's because your stupid girlfriend stepped on my foot. She hated me for that. Not that she didn't hate me already." She laughs again, and picks up a glass from behind the bar to polish it.

Draco half-smiles again, and picks up the shot, downing it in one go. The alcohol burns at his throat in a satisfying way, and the glass clinks against wood when he sets it down again.

"Want another?" Romilda asks, but she's already reaching for the bottle to fill it up again before he can even nod. Apparently he _does_ look as shitty as he feels.

"Thanks." There's a few moments of silence as Draco downs another shot, and Romilda fills it up again. This goes on for a little bit, with Romilda bustling in and out of view as she tends to customers. Draco finds himself watching her, and he's surprised to feel a slight spike of envy. She's independent – not bound by what everyone wants of her. She's got her own job, and probably her own life, free to do with it as she pleases. He wonders what it would be like, to be free of the responsibility that he's had since the moment he was conceived.

"So," he says, when she makes it behind the bar again. There's a gentle clink of glasses as she clears off a tray. "You're working here, then?" Well, obviously, but a bit of polite conversation couldn't hurt, could it?

Romilda fills up his glass again. "Yep," she says, without even the slightest bit of shame. "Started about a year ago. It's just temporary, of course. I'm saving up for a flat in Trowbridge. Of course, this place isn't so bad, really, I just want a place of my own."

"You live here?" he asks, surprised.

"Mhm, got a room in the back. The owner's a friend of mine, so he cuts me a good deal on rent." She smiles again, and Draco can't help but be surprised at just how up-beat she is. She doesn't have a place of her own, she's working at a _bar_, for Merlin's sake, and yet she seems like she's perfectly happy. He can't quite wrap his head around it. Of course, he's never quite understood the concept of 'saving' money, either. He's always had enough at his disposal to buy whatever it was that he wanted right at that moment. Waiting seemed to him like a ludicrous prospect.

As he reaches for his glass again, Romilda suddenly reaches out and catches his hand. She bends low, dark curls falling over her shoulder as she inspects it. "So you got married, huh?" she says brightly as she releases him. "Who's the lucky witch? Parkinson, I'd bet?"

Draco swallows, pulling his hand back self-consciously and fiddling with the ring on his finger. "Ah – no, Astoria Greengrass," he responds, and this time it's Romilda's turn to look surprised.

"Never took you for the type to like ice queens," she observes, pouring a drink for another man who's sitting a few seats away from Draco. "She always seemed like Queen Bitch to me, even though Daphne was the older one."

"I didn't know that you knew each other," he responds, finding this conversation to be increasingly awkward. He shouldn't talk about Astoria like this, especially with some half-blooded witch who's hardly worth his attention in the first place.

"Are you kidding?" She laughs again, bold and loud. Maybe it's the alcohol, but Draco is aware that it isn't as annoying as he'd first thought. Her voice has gotten a bit deeper since Hogwarts – it isn't nearly as high-pitched as it was when they were in school. It flows a lot smoother now, in a sultry sort of way. "All the girls had to talk about was each other. And trust me, Astoria Greengrass was high up on the Gossip Chain. We couldn't decide if she was stupid, or just vapid."

Draco knows he should defend Astoria. She's his wife, after all, but he can't help but agree with what Romilda says. He's thought the same thing many a time – although he's come to the conclusion that she isn't stupid. She's intelligent, but there's something about her that unnerves him. He doesn't spend any more time with her than he has to.

So instead of responding, he just motions for her to pour him another shot, having downed the last one somewhere in between her grabbing his hand, and her calling his wife some form of living ice sculpture. He decides, though, after drinking that one, that it'd be better to steer the conversation away from himself.

"What about you?" he asks, glancing towards her hand. There isn't a ring, or any indication that there has ever been one. "Married? Boyfriend? You can't be the one asking all the questions. Typical Gryffindor. Always taking, and never giving in return. Right greedy lot, aren't you?" It's more playful than anything, and Romilda even cracks another smile, glancing up at him from where she's now counting her tips. It must be rather late in the evening now – he's lost track of how long he's been there.

"Dated a few, dumped a few," she responds nonchalantly, dropping a few sickles into her pocket. "Never found anything that interested me." She leans on her elbows, observing Draco curiously. He's never noticed how large her eyes are before, until he has her doe-eyed, inquisitive gaze directed at him.

"But you, Draco Malfoy. _You_ are interesting." Draco is quickly growing uncomfortable under her scrutinizing gaze, but his pride won't let him look away. His grey eyes meet her dark ones evenly, and he raises a delicate eyebrow, silently urging her to continue.

"Well," she goes on, propping her chin up on her hand, "You have a beautiful wife. A beautiful house. And probably a half-dozen House Elves to wait on you hand and foot, so why are you here, in this dingy bar?" It isn't really a question, she's just thinking out loud. "Troubles with the wife? Don't think she's found someone else to thaw her out, do you?"

"Watch yourself, Vane," he snaps. "You shouldn't talk about what you don't know. For your information, no, I don't think she's cheating on me. I just-"

He stops. What is he supposed to say? He needed to get away? As if that wouldn't make him look guiltier than he already does. "I don't need to explain myself to you."

She just puts her hands up, grinning, as if this is some sort of game to her. "Don't get your knickers in a twist, Malfoy," she says with another laugh. "Just curious. I wouldn't have thought it proper for someone of your status to be hanging around a bar, that's all."

Draco must have had too much to drink. Because one second, he's sitting there, carefully steering the conversation – or, he likes to think he's in control, anyway – and the next, he's spilling. "My wife is pregnant," he says suddenly. "Our first child." He supposes he should sound a bit happier about it than he does, but he isn't really sure _how_ to feel at the moment.

Romilda lets out a slow whistle. "You _do_ need a drink," she says, and breaks out a larger glass, and a bottle of firewhiskey. She fills it up and slides it to him. "On me."

He smiles in thanks, and takes the glass he's offered, taking a long drink from it. She doesn't bring it up again, but rather waits for him to talk, occupying herself with washing up the small pile of glasses that has accumulated in the sink under the bar.

Sighing, Draco twirls the glass in his hands, eyes again drawn by the look of the liquid moving inside it. "I don't know what to do, really," he admits quietly, his voice barely above a murmur. "I know what I'm _supposed_ to do. What's expected of me. But..." he trails off.

"What do _you_ want?" Romilda asks, glancing up at him from where she's working.

What does he want? Draco pauses, mulling over her question as he takes another sip of firewhiskey. He hardly notices the burn now. "I don't know," he says slowly. "I don't know what I want."

Romilda considers him again, and for a few moments there's only the clink of glasses between them. "Not that you need any advice, especially from me, but I think you should do what's best for your family. Sometimes... Sometimes sacrifice is the only option. Even if that means giving up your personal freedom." She looks down, and Draco can't help but feel that she speaks from experience.

He nods and finishes the rest of his drink. A quick look around the bar tells him that it's closing time – people have been milling out for the last half hour or so, and he's the only one left. Well, he and Romilda. He knows, deep down – he knew it all along – that he has to do what's best for his family. Because, like it or not, he _has_ a family. And although, strictly speaking, he's never been one to go by morals, perhaps it's time to start. He feels abruptly liberated, in a way, as if everything is suddenly very clear.

"I should probably get back," he says as he stands up, and Romilda nods in understanding.

"Don't be a stranger," she says with a friendly smile, and it's a strange feeling, knowing that someone genuinely would like to see him again.

He isn't sure how to feel about it, but he finds himself smiling, and for the first time that night, it isn't forced. "I won't," he promises.

Romilda surprises him again by sticking out an arm, extending it towards him with her hand outstretched. At first, he isn't sure what she wants, and he stares at her hand in confusion, before slowly moving to grasp it in his own. She gives it a good shake.

All at once, he's shocked at the feel of her hands. He's felt Astoria's a thousand times, and they are as smooth as baby's skin. But Romilda's are not so. They're rough, but smooth at the same time, from all the hours of hard work she's been putting in since starting work here. He holds onto her hand for perhaps a second longer than he should, and when he releases her, he pulls a small pouch out of his pocket, pressing it into her dishpan-worn hands.

"To put towards your flat," he explains, flashing her another half smile. "Thank you."

He releases her, and she looks down to open the pouch. The sheer amount of gold and silver inside is enough to make her cover her mouth in protest, but when she looks up to say that it's all too much, he's already gone, and she's alone in the bar. Romilda swallows the lump in her throat, but it's a good ten minutes before she finds the strength to move from where she's standing, watching the door. And the only thing she can think is that all of those assumptions she and the rest of the Gryffindors made about Slytherins were completely wrong. And for once, she doesn't mind the notion.


End file.
